Burn

Burn

It was any old afternoon at the Darlinghurst end of Oxford Street. The day was brightly clear, cold and windy. As people walked by or sat at cafes or browsed or talked, their eyes were sweet and alive.

Mark sat outside a cafe at a little round table on the street. One hand was in his jacket pocket, snug, while the other led expeditions out to the strong, hot, short black from which he sipped. The clear day and cold wind sprang alive his sensations. He needed to take bites and be bit at.

Necessity drank and danced in the cavern of Mark's thoughts, which had become pleasing, and stinging. He watched women walk by.

But they were busy with their afternoon's work, their appointments, themselves, their dreams, their utility and manufacture of appearance, their desire and fear of desire, and words and ways that would relate this in oh such a fragile way.

They were they; most were most...and each to their own. Who can draw up a list of peoples' lives, reasons, occupations, from observations or otherwise? Not me of others, not you of others, and never one of oneself.

Every breathing woman was a beautiful mystery. Mark watched without seeming to watch. The dulling buzz of unconsciousness, the pins and needlely swim, the verge of agape death and sleep, was thrown backwards like a universe beyond brilliant stars. He branded his lips with the short black, burning.

Good day to you, South Sydney.

What did she look like? Her hair was cut to just above her shoulders and was curly and thick, lacy and black. Her expression was set. Her coat was black. What did she do for a living?

Mark was pathetic. A charged cock is an overwhelming affair. His face was pallid and sweaty and cold. Cold wind whipped him. He cringed and sucked.

Good afternoon, South Sydney. How goes the world?

The woman in black ignored Mark and span, span away to another world and days of her own life. She didn't even know Mark existed.

Luckily, the Turkish gentleman who had served up the next short black didn't throw Mark out because of Mark's drug addiction, which he didn't have. He didn't hammer Mark because of his poor, sweaty, pallid disease, which didn't exist. The gentleman knew passion was strong as well as debilitating, like a conquering sword that cuts through you also.

Mark looked at the sun. He was alive with the quest and loved this energy from which he lived. The burning coffee stung alive his deep, purple-cold red lips.

On a late afternoon when the sun is dominant in a cold sky, just close your eyes and ...fall, fall if only for a moment, but fall anyway.

Hello, South Sydney.

There is a country town where the world congregates during late afternoon on Oxford Street, country because it's dreamy and lazy. It's an Australian town, and you really ought not to expect otherwise.

Rowena enters. With her long, bleached hair. Rowena wore a long cut red blazer which was powerful at the shoulders and tapered to her thin legs, legs so thin you wouldn't believe. Black stockings, black skirt and black glasses. The tip of her nose and her lips made love with the cold air. This experience she breathed in, and let fall through her lungs, which snatched at it, releasing it back mercifully through her breasts and nipples, pricking coldly at her nipples.

What will you do now, Rowena? Rowena, remember the gold ring, the restraint pinching at your second finger on your left hand. Can you feel it pinch, Rowena? Is it getting tighter? Or aren't there any such concerns or conflicts in your marital home, Rowena? Are you free, Rowena, us an adult woman ought to be free, Rowena? Are you a woman or a wife, Rowena?

It was sunny and dusty and cold. Soon it would be cold night. TVs in South Sydney would be switched to a flashes and noise till dawn. Takeaway pizza would be bought and life in each little comfortable home would go on splendidly.

In Rowena's home too. Later tonight Rowena will put her left over pizza in the fridge. Then she will leave the TV on, though turn it down just a little, and put on her flannelette PJs and jump beneath the quilt. The day had gone well, only one small matter, the matter of her troubling passion. But it was nothing, really. It would be forgotten in the nightly process of things. Briefly would pass a piece of black forest cake and thoughts of tomorrow, and then slip, slip, slip, no control into little tired peoples' land, where all little tired Australian adults go. One breath, two breaths, and then sleepy byes, sleepy land.

But for now ...South Sydney, Taylor Square, just around from Oxford Street, the sun still burns. It is late, late afternoon, just prior to the release of the mean and well fed from the city blocks. In a moment or two the magic will be lost, all lost, till later this night. Something needs to be done, South Sydney, something needs to be done. And now!

Rowena, how will you decide? Will you follow the evening home or burn in the remnants of the sun? And even if you do go home to pizza and TV, would you sleep? Could you sleep? Will you tonight dream, as your friends will, in a snug and sleepy land? Or will the little gift, this desire, which you have been given now, turn angry? And rip into flames for having been ignored earlier in the day? These small gifts should never be ignored, never. Just believe me. They will not come again, not even with prayer. And do you think your husband could help? He wouldn't even understand. Rowena, even if you did go home, would you sleep? All right, you would have your pizza and TV, but would you sleep? Rowena, don't let the sun fall into the night, without being burnt a little by its warm light.

Rowena noticed someone standing dreamily nearby, from the corner of her eye.

A young man leaned against the arch of a doorway, wearing baggy, worn jeans and black boots with silver buckles. He had short, black, thick, curly hair. And he wore a baseball cap. And he looked at nuthin in particular. He ate an icecream. His shirt, checked of course, was undone. The sleeves were rolled right up. The shirt flapped around him, in the wind.

His torso was slim and smooth, all olive, with small, soft, sparse curly hair, which glistened and was gentle around his nipples. His small, soft nipples were alluring, purple, Mediterranean, like purple olives, of the Mediterranean young man, drawing you to want to kiss them and just suck them a little, and say, ''beautiful nipples", before his youth had any time to know the pleasure which was given him.

Leave him wasted and satisfied. Let him live till his next rush of need. O, Rowena!

He was all glory, all sun, all life, when he noticed Rowena notice him.

Rowena, go into the shop. Walk through the doorway where he's standing. Just walk by him and browse in the store. Your fingers will touch his torso, his nipple. And apologise. Push your hand under his belt, beneath its silver buckle. It'll be warm.

But it was over in a moment for the young man of beauty. His eyes had barely opened, his beauty barely showed. Now he was hangin around again. He'd nurse his injury this evening, maybe cry a little with the pain, cause it hurts, live to be wiser in a few years, and probably stupider too, for we cannot be wise the entire day through.

Because Rowena had other things to do and had crossed the forked road in a clack, clack step of her black heels, and made for the Darlinghurst end of Oxford Street, and left him far behind, forgotten. She would be good to her husband; she would buy the pizza tonight. Oxford Street was now a different colour. It was redder, and the air was crisp and real. Rowena was happy.

Meanwhile Mark was still sitting around drinking coffee, as Rowena walked by.

Rowena and Mark might have been anywhere else at this point in time. They might never have met. It was any old afternoon on Oxford Street.

People very often succeed in avoiding each other entirely as they walk around with smiles expressing affluence and comfort and ...power. And self control. By doing so, there's less risk of attracting the attention of the momentarily strong and consequently less risk of being ruined by someone else's momentary strength, in a moment of momentary weakness. But, sometimes people, unguarded, meet too, as Mark and Rowena now did.

Rowena had to show herself as vulnerable. Never let it be said that men are vulnerable in love. Men must be the takers, the cruel pirates, the confidence and weapon. The male ought not to be vulnerable in love. This little showing, this opening, was for Rowena to perform. Which she did.

She thought Mark was dangerous, really dangerous. Not just magazine scene dangerous, which all men ought to be if they really want to be individuals and truly, really male two day growth pinups. She thought he was properly dangerous. Confusion was written across his face and he was agitated. Also she thought he'd pass judgement on her skinny legs. And this really bothered her. Then he smiled. He was sane. The ocean ran out to leave a sandy beach. She watched him, and she smiled. He noticed this, as he looked at her. And this was her moment of vulnerability. She gave it to him, because now he looked nice.

Mark left his hot, short black. He didn't want it anyway. He only drank it to cool his passion.

As he stood up, his eyes were large and round. He watched Rowena, and watched her response as he stood, and felt the communication from her eyes through his body, and let it guide his movements. His body was flushed with opiates. He controlled and held his movements with careful meaning, so he appeared oddly like a cat, a big cat standing.

Rowena waited for him. She hesitated and broke her usual walk. But she did wait, and she didn't care to think why. Then she walked on.

She knew a lot of people in the area. She visited the cafes, the restaurants, bought papers from the 24-hour paper shops. A lot of friends and people from work hung around Oxford Street. She could have said hello to someone, for sure. If she had just looked up. She lived nearby. But she didn't even look for anyone she might know, as if this would keep friends and acquaintances from seeing her. Maybe her husband was around the place. She didn't look, or even worry about this. Instead she felt like a little girl after school, with secrets, that's all, maybe embarrassed, but only if Daddy were to find out.

It is a city of 4 million people. Who would see her, who would take any notice, why worry? But the world has billions of people, and the universe has billions of stars, but we come back to our planet and our communities of work and play and interests, and then it's a matter of ''who did you see there?" So this played on her mind, like the hot and cold flushes played across her cheeks.

Her eyes were very dark, quite soulful, with a silvery texture, and sometimes defiant. But they were always with feeling.

She walked with quick, long steps. She walked like someone beautiful. The crowd on the street parted, like the parting of a sea. She was someone special.

Occasionally she glanced around to see if he was following. He was. But she never bothered to meet his eye.

He followed, Mark followed. He had left South Sydney now. He was closer to his expectations of life. Such a rare, rare experience. And he was hoping it would eventuate okay.

He wondered what her voice sounded like. His mind was the clearest it had been for days. The wind no longer whipped him, nor goaded him into savagery. He was something with wings upon it. His nostrils flared and he drew in lungfuls of breath. He followed Rowena along little Oxford Street and then down Ryder Street. Her legs were very thin. He imagined her naked and with his hand around her thigh, running his thumb along the inside. It was very warm to hold her, as he kissed her neck.

Rowena stopped at the corner of Ryder Street and Taggards Lane. She turned sharply and said to Mark, ''Are you following me? If you are, I want you to know I can call the police".

Mark thought about this. His response was automatic. He didn't care to play games. Or guess if things had turned on a pinhead and she wasn't interested anymore, or things were never what he had originally thought. The world is full of fools, and he didn't feel like being one, and he didn't feel like being dragged through the cellblocks until he could prove his innocence and that he wasn't a fool. He turned back down Ryder Street, walked around the corner and onto Little Oxford Street, and headed for Crown Street, and back onto Oxford Square.

The sunset was oily and red. It lay like fire to the west. If you practise hard to forget the promotions, exploitation, commercialism, postcards, movies, etc... then the sunset is still a beautiful thing.

Mark was tired. It was that part of the day. He'd probably feel better at around eight thirty tonight. For now, all he wanted was a taxi. He couldn't really afford it, but the bus and its mean after workloads would have destroyed him.

Taxis raced by in the angry traffic, with their angry drivers. None stopped. He was back on Oxford Square.

Mark wanted to go home. But when he remembered it wasn't much of a home, he felt worse. His mouth began to fall and he was vulnerable, like men shouldn't be. The street flicked its grit at him, and rolled on in smoggy thunder.

A taxi stopped.

Mark got in the front seat. He put on his seat belt and gave his Moore Park address.

The back door opened and Rowena got in.

Mark turned around and tried to understand things for a second and then cleared things in his head and quietly growled, "get out".

Rowena said, "it's my taxi. I've been waiting. You get out."

Mark was angry but he started to get out rather than cause a row; it was the logic of the times.

Rowena was hurt, but didn't look at Mark twice. She got out and left the door open.

The taxi driver started giving himself a headjob about the open door.

Mark undid his seat belt and got out. He left the door open.

The upholstery was about to be stained.

Mark was angry. He walked quickly to Rowena, who was walking away. He caught her in four steps. He said, ''there's your taxi", and pointed back to it.

Rowena cried. She said, ''leave me alone. I'll call the police."

''What!" He stayed where he was, as she walked away.

''Just leave her alone, mate." Three men stood outside the pool hall. One of them said, ''She doesn't want anything to do with you. Leave her alone."

''I don't want anything to do with her", said Mark incredulously.

"Sure, mate." These men were dicks.

Rowena was hurt. It had been a bad day. She turned back. She raised her bag and wanted to hit Mark. She almost ran at him, her bag raised.

Mark stepped away.

''You got to learn to respect the fairer sex", said one of the pool hall crowd. He tried to grab Mark's hand and restrain him.

Mark pushed him away. He wanted to leave, and felt he now had to leave the city.

Rowena called out, ''he tried to violate me, he tried to violate me!" She cried and looked very upset.

Mark tried to ward off Rowena and the pool hall crowd. He turned and decided to leave. Two blocks away he would catch a taxi and go home and try to understand what had happened. He turned into two police officers and was clapped in irons.